by Tessa Arlen
Grateful for the distractions of her working day, Mrs. Jackson was dressed and pinning up her hair within thirty minutes of the letter’s arrival. She went about her morning routine at Chester House with her customary efficiency, giving considered and intentionally focused thought to everything she did, but thoughts of the letter and its invitation intruded on her day more often than she welcomed.
She was grateful for the distraction of recalling what she could of Mr. Tricklebank, whom she had seen only once, on her second day at Chester Square. He was a tall man in his late twenties, of light build, with a slightly round-shouldered stoop and soft, fair hair. She had been on her way to the library to make use of the telephone and noticed Mr. Jenkins helping Mr. Tricklebank into his topcoat. The younger man had turned for his hat and cane as he chatted pleasantly with the butler, leaning casually on his stick as he waited for Mrs. Jenkins to open the front door. Then with a neat twirl of his wrist he set his silk top hat at an angle on his head, lifted his cane to rest lightly on his right shoulder, and sauntered down the steps from the front door to the pavement. With a parting wave of his hand to Jenkins, he turned to walk up the street, and Mrs. Jackson had moved on to the library, thinking only that Mr. Tricklebank’s manners were rather pleasant toward the older man.
But Mr. Tricklebank’s awkward lie to the police and to his aunt had made him Lady Montfort’s suspect, and after their discussion the other morning, Mrs. Jackson wondered if perhaps their investigation would be short-lived; it might not be long before the police made a full arrest. But surely a vicious murder in the house of his aunt with a salon full of guests upstairs was the last thing a gadfly like Mr. Tricklebank would be capable of, with his harmless empty chatter and the mild and unremarkable air of the seasoned idler. Mrs. Jackson had sensed that Mr. Tricklebank had all the vacuity of a tailor’s dummy, and was far more likely to wait hopefully on the expectations of a healthy inheritance than actively to employ ruthless methods to gain it earlier. Surely the Mr. Tricklebanks of this world meekly married their aunt’s choice of bride, collected their reward for doing so in a substantial inheritance, and then spent the rest of their lives at one of their many gentlemen’s clubs.
On the other hand, Mrs. Jackson did not particularly fancy Miss Gaskell as a favorite suspect either. The more she found out about the young companion, the more she saw her as a victim of circumstance, and certainly not strong-willed or passionate enough to change the events of her life by violent methods. But the facts, Mrs. Jackson thought as she mentally traced Miss Gaskell’s steps on the night of the murder, must be established. And the fact that the butler had been standing sentinel in the hall outside the dining-room door after dinner did not mean that Miss Gaskell could not have entered the room without his knowledge. Mr. Jenkins’s memory was demonstrably unreliable, even if his commitment to duty was steadfast. And the photograph under Miss Gaskell’s pillow was significant, as was its later appearance in the wastepaper basket; even more so in light of Matron’s unkind gossip.
And what about the unlocked but closed window in the dining room—how did one account for that? She might, of course, put it down to another vague eccentricity on Mr. Jenkins’s part, as he forgetfully caused quite a few small incidences of chaos in the course of his working day. But Mrs. Jackson was a woman renowned for her methodical thoroughness and she discarded the idea as sloppy thinking. Mr. Jenkins was absentminded, not irrational. This troubling little detail of the unlocked window pointing to Sir Reginald’s killer having come in through the dining-room window did not weigh in Mr. Tricklebank’s favor. Perhaps it had been made to look that way?
And it was with this thought in mind that she let herself out of the main entrance to the house at Chester Square, leaving the front door slightly ajar with the doors to the inner hall closed.
It was still bitterly cold outside and she was grateful for the protection of the portico, which projected from the face of the house, supported by four tall pillars with a low wall on each side surmounted by an ornate balustrade. With her back to the front door, Mrs. Jackson put her hands on the balustrade of the left-side wall and leaned over to gaze down into the belowstairs area a floor below. She had a straight line of sight to the steps leading down to the area from the gated entrance on the pavement. If she leaned out and craned down she could just about see the entrance door to the servants’ hall underneath the portico.
She straightened up, turned, and, still with her back to the front door, faced the street. There were three wide stone steps down onto the pavement of Chester Square. Marching in a solid line, left and right, protecting the area below them from the pavement, were the ubiquitous, handsome black iron railings each surmounted by a finial spike, which formed such a feature of Belgravia’s smart, terraced mansions. If she turned her head to the right she could see the two other houses that adjoined Miss Kingsley’s house stretching away to the corner, and to her left, since Miss Kingsley’s house was on the corner of the terrace at the top of Chester Square, she could just see the beginning of tree-lined Chester Walk as it intersected with the square.
The distance between the railed edge of the pavement and the facade of the house was too great to span without the use of a ladder laid horizontally. She turned back to the left-side wall of the portico and gazed across at the windows on the ground floor of the house. There were three of them equally spaced apart, the window for the hall and then two dining-room windows. If Mr. Tricklebank was tall enough, which he was, and athletic enough, which he might be, he could step from the balustrade across quite a terrifying gap, since the area was easily twelve feet below, and make it safely to the first wide stone sill of the hall window. The sill was certainly wide enough for a man to stand on. Then with good balance and long legs he might sidestep from there onto the sill of the first of the pair of dining-room windows; it would be a stretch but quite possible. Anyone doing so would have to be reasonably fit, she thought as she looked at the distance and wondered whether Mr. Tricklebank was foolish or desperate enough to try this stunt on an icy winter night.
She stood there in the frigid morning air, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she took stock of the front of the house and its surroundings, and when she had committed all possibilities to memory she turned and went back inside.
Rubbing her hands up and down the outsides of her upper arms, she walked across the hall toward the back stairs. Matron had said that Miss Gaskell had put herself forward to be interesting to any man in the house. Maybe Miss Gaskell had unlocked the window so that Mr. Tricklebank could reenter the house and kill Sir Reginald. But surely if this unlikely pair had designs on the old lady’s money they would have eliminated Miss Kingsley and not Sir Reginald.
Still shivering with cold, she hurried to the little between-stairs office, where she sat down at the desk and considered the possibility of Miss Gaskell as accomplice to Mr. Tricklebank, or directly in her own interests. But she got only so far before she decided it was time to cast around for further information, so she got up and went downstairs to the servants’ hall.
“Martha, would you ask the kitchen maid to make some tea, and do you have time to take a cup with me?” she asked the first housemaid, who was standing over the table, mechanically turning the pages of the daily newspaper and barely reading what she saw before her. Of course Martha had the time for tea. Miss Kingsley was in her room, Miss Gaskell in hers, both of them undoubtedly picking through a light luncheon served to them on a tray. The servants dusted immaculate furniture, swept carpets that had not been trodden on, polished untarnished silver, rearranged the china cupboard, and argued over who was to take trays to the two ladies languishing in their bedrooms upstairs. After which they sat around the table in the servants’ hall and drank endless cups of tea.
As they waited for the kettle to boil, Mrs. Jackson went through Martha’s household duties for the charity evening. She purposely flattered Martha by asking her advice on table linen for the charity event, and when she felt thoroughly di
sgusted with herself for being smarmy she dexterously turned the conversation to Miss Gaskell.
“I am rather hoping Miss Gaskell will be well enough to come down tomorrow and take care of the last-minute details for the charity evening. I think it will help restore her to everyday life.”
“Yes, that would be nice, but I doubt it.” Martha, standing over the table, poured hot water into the teapot, covered it with a garish woolly tea cozy, and rattled two cups and saucers, the milk jug, and the sugar bowl onto the table in front of them.
“She still seems so low, depressed I would almost call it,” Mrs. Jackson observed as they both stared into their empty cups, waiting for their tea to brew.
“You can say that again,” said Martha, her plain face wrinkled up in scorn.
“‘Grieving’ I would have said, almost as if she was a part of Sir Reginald’s family.” Mrs. Jackson did not look up, as she did not want to see Martha’s derision at her impudent suggestion.
Martha made an impatient movement of dismissal with the sugar tongs, snorted more disapproval, and asked her if she would be mother. Mrs. Jackson obediently poured tea.
“Well I am sure she worked with him on the charity, and no doubt he was rather like a father figure to her.” Mrs. Jackson, dismayed at how Machiavellian she was being, felt like a spy. She hoped Martha needed an outlet from the imposed silence of the past few days and would welcome a confidante who was not part of the Kingsley family. She was rewarded.
“A father figure, my foot, Mrs. Jackson.” Pushed beyond patience, Martha was compelled to set the record straight. “She wasn’t looking for a father, not that one, a husband more like.”
“Oh, there was an understanding between them?” Mrs. Jackson put down her teacup and turned to face Martha, her eyes wide with polite surprise.
“Well I don’t know about between them, but there were certainly hopes on Miss Gaskell’s part.” Martha crossed her arms under her bosom in judgment and sank her chin down onto her neck as she pondered Miss Gaskell’s improper optimism. “Not that we repeat that sort of thing, you understand?”
She cast an inquiring glance at Mrs. Jackson, who obediently said, “No, of course not. Poor young thing, to have her hopes dashed in such a sad way,” in what she hoped was a spinster’s voice forever commiserating with the lovelorn.
Another snort erupted from Martha. “Poor young thing, my eye, she’s a scheming piece of work. Oh, the times I’ve heard that sweet voice cooing agreement as she sits down to play the pianoforte for Sir Reginald and Miss Kingsley of an evening, with that soppy, simpering expression on her face. Pure treacle she was. And then you catch her—always watchful, careful not to displease. Furtive, I call it. She was a right sly little madam. There, now I’ve said it.” She paused. “And I’m not sorry for it neither.”
Matron’s gossip confirmed, Mrs. Jackson took it a step further. Hoping to discover if Martha suspected tender feelings between Mr. Tricklebank and Miss Gaskell, she decided to come right out and ask it. Martha’s reply was quite definite.
“Oh good lord no, Mrs. Jackson, certainly not! If Miss Kingsley thought Mr. Tricklebank was romantically interested in her paid companion she would have sent Miss Gaskell packing immediately. No, Mr. Tricklebank is a lovely, kind gentleman, he may not be the brightest, but he’s not that stupid. His purpose is to marry Miss Wells-Thornton and face up to his responsibilities to the charity, and I am quite sure Miss Gaskell understands that and wouldn’t waste her time. And if I know Miss Kingsley, that is exactly what will happen. Mr. Tricklebank will marry Miss Wells-Thornton, just you wait and see.”
She was interrupted by the first footman, John, as he came clattering down the back stairs.
“Where’s James?” he asked, looking around for the Clumsy Footman.
“Polishing in the silver pantry and ’e’s put a bloomin’ great dent in the silver punch bowl; there’ll be ’ell to pay when Mr. Jenkins finds out.” Martha’s dropped aitches were an indication of her embarrassment at being caught gossiping about the Kingsley family.
It seemed as if the second footman’s job was continually to displease, thought Mrs. Jackson. He had had his pay docked twice for breakages, and still he managed to do something slipshod or hurried, attracting criticism and more exasperation from his fellow workers. She felt almost sorry for the pale young man who silently went about his work under a continual deluge of criticism.
“Send Eliza to look for him, he’s probably having a smoke in the area, and for heaven’s sake find Mr. Jenkins, because that policeman is here again.” John swiftly ran a comb through his hair, put it back into the inside pocket of the coat, and turned to run back upstairs.
“Is he here to see Miss Kingsley?” Martha asked, getting to her feet. “Because she is having an after-luncheon rest, and shan’t be disturbed. He’ll have to come back.”
“No, not for Miss Kingsley, he wants to speak to James, and it’s not the inspector, it’s his sergeant.”
“He’ll have to come down here and talk to him. Mr. Jenkins doesn’t want the staff interviewed in the drawing rooms, so show him down.” But John was already bounding up the stairs.
And as Mrs. Jackson was wondering why the police wanted to talk to the Clumsy Footman, Detective Sergeant Wilkins of the Metropolitan Police came ponderously into the servants’ hall and stood before them, a short, stout man with an overly large head and shrewd eyes. He immediately noticed Mrs. Jackson.
“The Mrs. Jackson who works for Lady Montfort, isn’t it?” His eye flicked over her. “How kind of her ladyship to offer your services to the household; I am sure Miss Gaskell is still far from well.” Everything he said and how he said it implied disbelief and suspicion. He didn’t wait for her reply but turned swiftly to Mr. Jenkins as he came down the corridor from the back stairs.
“Ah, Mr. Jenkins, good afternoon. I am afraid I must ask you, or your first footman, to come down to the city mortuary with me, because we think we might have found your previous first footman, a Mr. Leonard Crutchley.”
There was a series of exclamations from all the servants, who had crowded into the servants’ hall the moment they heard that a policeman was belowstairs. Kitchen maids drying their hands on tea towels cried out with shock, and Eliza, who had come downstairs with a bucket and mop, let them drop to the tiled floor with a crash, threw her apron up over her head, and burst into tears. Evidently Mr. Crutchley was popular among the female servants.
He did that on purpose, thought Mrs. Jackson; he wanted to see their reactions. The police always do that, take people by surprise and shock them into betraying some emotion or blurting something out.
The sergeant, pleased at the uproar he had caused, waited for it to die down before he started another one.
“The other person I want to see is your new footman, your second footman, working name of James, real name Eddy Porter—like to have a word with this young man first off.” The sergeant’s manner was genial, as if he anticipated a pleasant, informal chat with clumsy Eddy Porter.
Eliza piped up, “I think James is cleaning shoes in the scullery. I’ll go and find him if you like.”
“Yes, Eliza, if you would, please,” Martha said, quickly giving her permission before she was upstaged by the policeman. “When you say ‘mortuary’ you mean that Len is dead, don’t you, Sergeant?” She continued, not put off by the repressive look he gave her, “I mean you said ‘mortuary,’ so of course you think you have found the body of Mr. Crutchley. I am right, aren’t I?”
The policeman ignored her and turned to Eliza, who had come back from a quick tour of all the rooms belowstairs.
“He’s not down here. And he’s not outside having a cigarette. Do you want me to run over to the mews, Martha, and see if he’s taking a break with Macleod?”
Martha nodded, “Yes, and please be quick about it, Eliza. The sergeant wants a word with him and we don’t want to keep him waiting here too long.” But when Eliza came back and said that James was not at the mews, and a
fter she and John had searched through the house, they came back to report that James was nowhere to be found.
“His uniform is hanging up in his room, and his personal things have gone,” said John, looking guilty, as if he had helped spirit the other man away.
“Then he’s scarpered,” said Martha. She turned to the policeman. “Don’t s’pose you have another footman lying around in your mortuary then, Sergeant?”
The sergeant unbuttoned the top right breast pocket of his uniform jacket and pulled out a small notebook and a lead pencil.
“So you think it’s Leonard Crutchley then?” Martha persisted. She was not going to give up, Mrs. Jackson thought with admiration.
“We have to have a formal identification first of all, miss, but certainly the man we have at the mortuary is a footman. He is wearing livery and it is exactly the same livery as the one this gentleman has on here.” He glanced at John and then past him toward the butler.
“Mr. Jenkins, shall I take John here along with me for identification purposes?” The policeman was correct in assessing that the elderly man was going to slow his day down considerably, as the butler was holding out his waistcoat watch to show it was certainly not the correct time of day to identify bodies.
Mrs. Jackson was quite distressed for Mr. Jenkins. His direction of the servants seemed to grow more tenuous each day and she was growing accustomed to finding him gazing vacantly out a window in one of the many rooms in the house. At her approach he would turn to her with a look of such frightened surprise that she was reminded of the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. When she stated her reason for interrupting his reverie, he would pull out his waistcoat watch and without even looking at it say, “Really, my dear young lady, that’s impossible, I believe I would have remembered.” It sometimes took all her restraint not to reply, Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast, a perception that she thought was not too wide off the mark.